Читать книгу Marrying Mom - Olivia Goldsmith - Страница 13

although it was seventy-eight degrees and sunny, the Miami airport was incongruously decked out in fake firs and Christmas tinsel. Sylvia Katz, forlornly schlepping her oversized purse, looked at Phyllis and shook her head. “First class? It’s such a bad idea. And a waste of money,” she said.

“What the hell.” Phyllis shrugged. “I’ve never flown first class in my life. And that travel agent of my son-in-law’s looked at me with respect.”

“For wasting money, she respects you?”

“Oh, life can always use some embellishment. If I play my cards right, I’ll never fly again. Might as well go out with a bang, right, Sylvia?”

“God forbid. Don’t even joke.” Sylvia paused. “You sure you won’t change your mind? I’ll give you back the magazine rack.”

“Tempting, but no cigar.”

“Cigars?” Sylvia said. “What do cigars have to do with this?”

Phyllis leaned forward and kissed Sylvia on the cheek. She’d never known anyone as literal as Sylvia. Nine-tenths of what Phyllis said went right over Sylvia’s overpermed head. “You’re in a world of your own, Sylvia,” Phyllis told her friend. “That’s probably why you can stand me. I don’t get on your nerves because you don’t have any.”

“Nerves? Who cares about nerves? I won’t have any friends now.” A tear began to run down Sylvia’s very wrinkled cheek.

Phyllis fished into her jacket pocket and pulled out a key chain. “Keys to the Buick,” she said. “Stay off I-95 and don’t get carjacked, if you can help it.”

“You’re giving me your car? Your car?”

“I won’t need it in New York. No one has cars in New York. It’s a civilized place. We have taxis.”

“Your car?”

“Sylvia, stop repeating yourself. You sound like a demented toucan.” Phyllis reached out, took Mrs. Katz’s plump and wrinkled hand and put the keys in them. “A little Christmas present. From me to you.”

“But you already gave me so much. The magazine rack, the plants …” Sylvia took out a crumpled handkerchief and noisily blew her nose.

“Sylvia, who uses handkerchiefs anymore?” Phyllis asked and looked at the wet cloth distastefully. “What are you going to do with it now?”

“Put it in my purse.”

“Feh! You’ll get mucus all over your wallet. Get with the times and get yourself some Kleenex.”

“Don’t you think you should call the children?” Sylvia asked. “Tell them.”

“You mean warn them. No. Why should I? So they’ll argue with me?” She paused. “Sylvia, did you interfere?”

Sylvia cast down her eyes guiltily. Phyllis didn’t need to ask any further and let her friend off the hook.

“You still giving me your car?” Sylvia asked.

“Yes. And I won’t put any of them out, Sylvia. I’ll stay at a hotel. I’ll get my own place. It will make a nice surprise.” Phyllis wasn’t altogether sure that “nice” was the word any of her three children would use, but it was a free country.

“I’m going to miss you, Phyllis.”

“I know.”

“If it doesn’t work out, you can come back down and stay with me any time.”

“I know.”

The fat woman fumbled in her purse. “I only got you a little something. A token.” She handed Phyllis a small box.

“I know. A woman who hasn’t picked up a check for more than seven years is not going to suddenly begin handing out Harry Winston.” Phyllis took the little package and opened it. “Oh. Handkerchiefs. What have I done without them?”

“What will I do without you?” Sylvia sighed, the sarcasm lost on her.

“Play a lot of canasta. The girls will let you back into the game now that I’m not around to insult them.”

“They never should have banned you,” Mrs. Katz said with fresh indignation.

“Sylvia. It was four years ago. Forget about it. Play canasta. Meld. May you draw many red threes. Go to Loehmann’s, schlep around the Saw Grass Mall. You’ll be fine.” Phyllis had never been good with emotions. What was the point? Most things she deflected with a wisecrack. The rest she ignored.

Mrs. Katz mopped at her eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You’re repeating yourself, Sylvia. I have to go.” The two women hugged one another briefly, and then Phyllis turned and walked with the crowd, moving toward the security checkpoint and the waiting flights.

Phyllis passed under a big sign that said: “Come Back to Miami Soon. We’ll Miss You.” “Fat chance,” she answered out loud to herself, her voice caustic. “I’m getting out alive.”

Sig sat at her dining room table, a tumbler of Chianti beside her. She was secretively filling in the real estate broker’s form to put her apartment up for sale. She didn’t know if she could renegotiate her home equity loan or if she could get a hiatus on her mortgage. But while she was trying both of those strategies it was best to take this frightening step. She was not in a good mood. She’d actually considered calling Phillip last night before she’d regained her dignity and sanity.

“This isn’t easy,” Sharon said from her seat at the other end of the table. She had spread its lacquered surface with dozens of files as well as her laptop and printer. “I don’t know why I always get the hardest job.” Before Sig had a chance to launch into just how difficult it was for her to conceive of and finance Operation Geezer Quest, the doorbell chimed. Before Sig could even rise, Bruce had turned the lock with his key and had come in and collapsed onto the love seat under the dining room window.

“I’m busy doing the research.” They both looked at Sig.

“Yeah, and I’m busy working to pay for this entire sting operation,” she reminded them. Each of them looked resentfully at their siblings. There was a pause that could have gone either way: they could all disintegrate into endless childish bickering or move on. Bruce decided to make a heroic effort.

“So, how is the research coming?”

Sharon, with some difficulty because of her bulk, got up, found her huge canvas sack, and pulled out even more armfuls of files, magazines, and clippings. Sig thought she might go mad.

“Okay. Operation Geezer Quest. Cross-referenced in different categories.” Sharon began to sort colored folders, laying them in various piles on the coffee table. “What I have here are all unmarried men in the tristate metropolitan area, seventy or older, with a net worth of more than fifty million.” She looked up at Bruce and Sig with a worried expression. “I didn’t know if I should make the cutoff fifty million or a hundred million. But there weren’t many at a hundred, so I arbitrarily picked fifty. I did keep an initial reference list so I can go back if you want me to.”

“I think you made the right decision, Sharon,” Bruce told her.

Sharon merely nodded into her categorized stack. “I sorted them by geographical location, religious affiliation, previous marriages …” She looked up. “I separated the widowed from the divorced. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it might make a difference down the road. Among the divorced I listed the settlements, if any. I also categorized them by whether or not they require a prenuptial. Lastly, I listed their philanthropic histories. I figured we wanted to find the generous ones.”

Sig poured the last of the coffee into the bone china service. She might order takeout, but she ate off porcelain. Sharon pulled out a list and handed it to Bruce and Sig as a justification. “Okay, here’s my initial analysis. Bernard Krinz’s on the list. So is John Glendon Stanford and Robert Himmelfarb. I thought those three would make a good first cut. They’re all here in New York.” She paused. “Well, Himmelfarb is out in Sands Point, but he socializes in Manhattan.”

Sig looked over Sharon’s findings. “Good targets,” she agreed.

“This is where having an anal compulsive as a sister finally pays off,” Bruce said.

Sharon’s face crumpled like an empty beer can against a jock’s forehead. “I worked very hard on this. You don’t have to be so critical.”

“Sharri, he’s not being critical,” Sig assured her. “It’s Bruce’s way of saying he thinks this is good.”

Sharri looked at her brother. “You do? You think it’s good?”

“I think it’s superb! Sharri, it’s wonderful.”

“Honestly?”

Bruce put up a hand in a crossing-guard stop sign. “Sharon, shut up. You always go too far. No more praise. It’s good, so now let’s get to work.”

Sig called out for more coffee—she never made her own but ordered it instead from the Greek joint at the corner. Mostly in silence, together the Sibs pored through Sharon’s findings. They devoured the dish, whistling or exclaiming every now and then at the numbers of homes, numbers of ex-wives, and numerous offshore accounts.

“Sharri, this is really outstanding,” Sig finally said. “You’ve done an excellent job.” Sharon glowed from the praise.

Bruce looked at her appraisingly. “You know, Sharon, I need market research like this for my company.”

“Sharon, why don’t you get a job? Forget Barney’s downsized career,” Sig said. “You certainly need the money.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Libraries aren’t hiring.” Sharon shrugged. “Anyway, Barney is the one who needs to boost his self-esteem.”

“Just call her Cleopatra, Queen of Denial.” Bruce shrugged.

“You don’t need a librarian’s job, Sharri. You could do this.” Sig waved a sheaf of paper. “This is great market research. Really thorough.”

Sharon just shook her head. “Who’d hire me?”

“You know what I’ve got here?” Bruce asked. The two others shook their heads. “I’ve got Mr. Right.”

“I don’t remember that name,” Sharon said.

“Du-uuh! I’m not using it literally, Sharon.” Bruce opened the file. “This guy lives right here in New York, he’s loaded, he’s a widower, and he gives a lot of money to charity.”

“Who is he?” Sig wanted to know.

“Bernard E. Krinz.”

“The architect?” Sig asked.

“Yeah.” Bruce rolled his eyes upward and got what Sharon called his “movie look.” “Hey, it could be just like Patricia Neal and Gary Cooper in The Fountainhead. Except for the sex scene,” Bruce shuddered. “Boy, look at this.” Bruce held up a page from the file. “Well, maybe not exactly. The ‘E’ stands for Egbert. His mother really hated him.”

“Phyllis Krinz. Eeuw!” Sig said.

“You won’t say that when you look at his P&L.” Bruce handed the folder to his sisters. Bom of them raised their eyebrows, deeply impressed.

“Well, what’s in a name?” Sharon shrugged.

“Plenty,” Bruce said. “Rothschild is good. Rockefeller is good. Gates is very good.”

“Names! Don’t talk to me about names! ‘Susan!’ Does it get any less original than that?” Sig asked angrily. “Is there any name more dated, more boring, more stereotypically dull than Susan?”

“Well, actually, ‘Bruce’ does seem rather like a self-fulfilling prophecy. She made me a faigela, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

Sharon looked up. “Oh, what do you two have to complain about? I was named for a woman who stuck her hand up Lamb Chop’s ass to make a living.”

Chastened, Sharri’s sister and brother looked at one another and nodded. “She’s got a point,” Sig admitted.

“Let me see,” Bruce ruminated. He waved the file. “If we pick our mark, how do we get Mom to meet him?” Bruce asked.

“Let’s figure out what events he’s planning to be at. These people all have public lives. They attend openings, theater, they go to dinners. Especially the charitable ones,” Sig said. “I know all the events my firm helps underwrite and I think I can get access to seating arrangements. We have our target and we get next to it. Then we get a ticket for Mom to go, and make sure she meets him and he likes her.”

“Yeah. How do we manage that last part?” Bruce asked. “You can bring a horse to water, but—”

“Obviously, one of us has to take her to the event, be sure we’ve got her near the mark, and make it happen.”

“Not me,” Bruce said. “It will be bad enough getting humiliated in a department store, let alone some—”

“Oh, I’d like to go to a party,” Sharon volunteered.

“Not you,” Bruce added. “Sig, you go with Phillip Norman.”

Sig nearly blushed. She didn’t have the strength to admit she’d been dissed by Phillip. “I don’t think so,” she said as casually as she could. “Look, this is going to be an expensive proposition,” Sig told them. “The clothes, the tickets, a limo. Bruce, I think you and I should both go and make sure that we at least get Mom in front of the target.” Sig turned to Sharon. “Sharon, we need you as the secret weapon. This was great work so far. But now you have to research the next phase.”

“What’s the next phase? I can’t do anything else.”

“Yes you can. Just find out the next big charity events in New York. I’ll see which one my firm helps to sponsor and if any of these three clowns is going to attend. Then you dig out everything extra you can on our first target.”

She handed the three folders back to Sharon. “Needless to say, Mr. Phelps, if anything goes wrong with this mission we will disavow all knowledge of—”

Bruce interrupted her. “You’re right. This is Mission Impossible.”

Sig put down the folder she held. “Well, one thing I know for sure: you can’t catch fish without bait. Sharon’s done her job and I’m doing mine. We’ll see what you can do with Mom when she gets here.”